The Verdant Elder was confused at this point.
There was a part of him that screamed constantly that he was a demon beast. However, his current "reality" was completely different.
He stood under the hot sun, wearing tattered robes, digging the soil with the bare hands of a small human child. Rows of spiritual herbs grew under his care. He smelled fertilizer. He heard the buzzing of insects. He felt hunger. Weakness. Hope.
He carried water buckets. Argued with a greedy landlord that had the eyes of a mongoose.
Counted pitiful Spirit stones carefully by candlelight as a way to make sense of his relentless hard work.
Spoke softly to his plants like they were friends because there was hardly anyone of his own age to talk to.
The Verdant Elder felt everything.
The pain of poverty. The fight for survival. The strange joy of seeing a seed sprout. He wanted to scream, but couldn't. The memories weren't his, but they wrapped around his soul like vines—tight and familiar.
